Teeth in the Grass
by let'sgetthoughtful
Summary: The most exciting part of a relationship is the beginning. My version of Eric and Sookie's start, near the top of season 4. Warm, sensual, a little cerebral. Rated M for evocative and increasingly explicit content.
1. Chapter 1

**Teeth in the Grass**

"_And when you give me your clothes  
and when we're lovers at last  
fresh air, perfume in your nose  
there will be teeth in the grass_"

—Iron and Wine

I rubbed my temples and took a long drag of iced tea. Work had been gruelingly stupid, and all I wanted to do was slip into a bath. I would, just as soon as I found the energy to drag myself off the couch. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the worn cushions, humming tunelessly to myself, enjoying the light breeze from the open door.

"Hmm… And here I thought you didn't sing," said a dark, amused, and very male voice.

I whirled around at the sound and found Eric casually smirking against the doorframe. For a moment, I couldn't remember why I was angry with him; all thought fled from my head. I lost my breath. Suddenly becoming aware of his presence was like being physically struck.

Instead of fighting to reply, I gave in and merely admired him. His taut, powerful frame; his striking, intelligent face; his witty, dangerous demeanor… It was unusual to feel so unbalanced, so outmatched in every way, and still feel comfortable. I just wanted to sit and stare at him.

His eyes—so often hard, so often unreadable—twinkled mischievously. He shrugged at my silence, and ran a slender finger across his lips—to tempt me? to draw my attention there? It didn't matter. I was quickly losing my mind, and he knew it.

"So… Am I invited in?"

I quickly came to. "Suit yourself, smart ass. You know there's nothing I can do about it." Eric strode casually into the living room, but did not sit. He leaned, both on display and denying that he needed to be, owning the room, owning my gaze.

He continued, "Perhaps, but that's no reason not to observe the niceties." He inhaled deeply, and his eyelids fluttered for a moment. "Being near you makes me want to be very nice."

"Is that so?" I answered back. "Well, you could start by giving me a foot rub…" He advanced so quickly I almost lost my balance. He must have sensed my sudden panic, because instead of forcing himself upon me, he merely settled into a corner of the couch.

"If I were you, lover, I would not offer what I did not want to receive… There isn't much I would deny you."

"How about my house, then?"

"It's yours," Eric stated flatly, grabbing an important-looking envelope out of his jacket pocket and flicking it my way. I stared at him skeptically. "Come, Sookie. You don't really think I would hold something over you so petty as a property deed. What's the fun in that?"

I snatched up the envelope and peeked inside. Sure enough, the deed of ownership was there, my name printed in clear black lettering. "Thank you," I managed, in disbelief more than gratitude. Before I could think too much about it, I reached across the space between us, and grasped his hand. "Thank you, Eric. This is…"

"…unexpected?" he finished for me, a little pain in his small smile. His fingers closed over mine. My heart stuttered.

"I am not going to apologize," he said after a moment, stroking his fingers lightly in between mine. "But neither will I ask for something in return." He turned his face toward me, his eyes a penetrating, serious gray. "We are equal now."

Even without my usual presence of mind, I laughed aloud. "Eric Northman, we are anything but equal."

"Oh no?" he whispered, as his hand casually drifted up my arm and into my hair. He stirred the locks with his long fingers, causing my breathing to hitch. "And why is that?"

I almost started the list—his looks, his wealth, his position, his age, his magnetism, his predatory power—but I did not. "You want compliments, Mister, you're going to have to give some once in a while. Besides, I don't think I could take it if your head got any bigger."

At that he raised an eyebrow fiendishly, making me replay my last words in my head. I blushed, but tilted my head back at him in challenge.

"I'm not sure I could, either," he smiled, shifting his hips slightly but pointedly in my direction.

"Incorrigible!"

"Indeed," he responded with a smirk before turning serious. "But truly, Sookie, whatever you may perceive as imbalances between us are trivial. Power, money, title: effects of living so long; nothing I inherently possess. You are my equal. In every way that matters."

"Hmm, what makes you so sure? I might have one or two things on _you_," I flipped back.

"Lover," he retorted wryly, "you can have any number of things on me any time you want. Nothing would please me more."

I surprised myself by laughing, and Eric smiled back at me with something resembling genuine warmth. That was new. I returned his smile shyly. Could I be open with Eric? I wasn't sure. But for the first time since I'd known him, I felt like I wanted to try.

He seemed to sense the mood change. He looked at me quizzically, though without distrust, and pulled his hand back from my ponytail.

"Would you like to come outside with me, Sookie? I want to show you something."

I followed Eric out the door into the cool night air of the backyard. My breath caught in my chest. Standing in the middle of the yard—so large that I questioned how it possibly could have been planted there less than a hundred years, even though I knew it wasn't there when I left for work in the daylight—was a beautiful ash tree. As if drawn to it, I walked to the trunk and placed my palm against it. It almost seemed to hum against my hand as I stared into the branches. I was vaguely aware of Eric watching from a distance, his arm folded against his chest, a quiet smile playing about his mouth.

Through my wonder, I was puzzled. It didn't seem to go with the other modern changes Eric had made to my house. In fact, it seemed almost ancient.

"Why?" I breathed without turning to him.

"Where I come from, ash trees are quite special. Yggdrasil, in Norse mythology, is a massive ash tree that connects the nine realms of existence. The tree of life." He paused. I turned toward him and waited in silence as he sought the right words. "I know I made a lot of changes here, not all of them welcome, and I wanted...to do something that would honor your ancestors, all those who came before." He shrugged as if the next sentiment was commonplace, "I thought this tree might remind you of the interconnectivity of life and death, and the endless portals between them."

I was shocked at the tender intelligence, the sincerity in his words. This was an Eric I had no knowledge of. I remained frozen near the base of the tree, staring at his face.

"Further," he continued, taking a few steps closer, "in my culture, we have what are known as warden trees. They serve as guardians, bringers of luck." He paused carefully. "Knowing this house is yours again—that I cannot come and go as I please—I leave you this emblem of protection."

Quietly, steadily, Eric advanced until he stood directly in front of me. He lowered his head slightly, staring into my eyes. Cupping one hand under my chin, he brought my face up to meet his. His eyes glittered in the moonlight.

"Most simply," he whispered, "trees are beautiful. And you…you are beautiful."

Gazing into his face, I was touched, overwhelmed, puzzled, excited. I couldn't process the change in my emotions that had taken place in the last few minutes, and so I didn't speak. I didn't move. I merely felt. He closed his eyes, and brought his forehead down to meet mine. For a few moments, he rested his head against me, breathing quietly. I closed my eyes as well, my pulse beating wildly against his skin. Several minutes passed as we shared the silence.

"Miss Stackhouse," Eric murmured eventually, so softly I was surprised I could understand him, "I would very much like to see you tomorrow." I froze for a long moment against him, my eyes still closed, before nodding in assent. A small growl of pleasure echoed through his chest, the first reminder in a while that he was a powerful, dangerous vampire. My body felt drawn to him, and ever so slowly, I raised my arms to embrace him.

Before I could touch him, he uttered, "Until then." I felt a sudden rush of cold air against me. My eyes snapped open, my body on alert. All that met my gaze was the gorgeous, silent, ancient tree. Eric was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Teeth in the Grass: Chapter 2**

"_And when you give me your house  
when we're all brothers at last  
there will be food in our mouths  
there will be teeth in the grass_"

—Iron and Wine

Although I anticipated the evening with a kind of wild excitement, I spent most of the day worrying. Why had I agreed to see Eric again? True, he had given my house back. He had also given me one of the most unique gifts I'd received in my life. But I wasn't sure that made him trustworthy.

All through my day shift at work, I reviewed the situation. There were several things I did know about him—I knew where he was from, who his maker was, what he did for a living. I knew about his ambivalent sense of morality and his deep code of honor. I knew he could be unpredictable, threatening, and manipulative, but also wise, quick-witted, and honest—sometimes ruthlessly so. I also knew that he wanted me. But I didn't know how he felt.

In all the times I'd seen him, I'd never heard him describe his emotions. Last night was a pretty big indicator that Eric regarded me with something more than lust or curiosity, but I wasn't sure what that was, or how deep it went. I flashed back to his reaction long ago when I had mentioned his love for Godric—was it true that Eric didn't understand the word? Or did he experience it as something different? Something more?

I remembered the advice Gran gave whenever I got ahead of myself thinking about a boy: _no one is ever sure at the beginning—that's what dates are for_. I felt a little calmer, and my shift ended without incident.

When I reached my house, I realized I didn't know when to expect Eric. "Tomorrow" is a long time, and I didn't know if he was working. It was a few minutes after sundown, and he wasn't waiting eagerly on my doorstep, so I figured I had a little time to prepare. I changed out of my uniform, and thought about how I wanted the evening to go. I decided: yesterday was his; tonight was mine.

I pulled a wicker hamper out of the hall closet and packed a bottle of wine and a TruBlood. After a long day working indoors, sitting outside under the stars sounded just right.

"Knock, knock," came a voice like sandpaper and honey just outside the screen door. My heart leapt in my chest.

"Come on in; I'll be right there."

I walked into the front room and locked eyes with him immediately. Eric was hard to miss, looming above the hooked rug—long, lean, and good-looking as ever. I was momentarily transfixed.

He raised his eyebrows at the sight of the basket: "It looks like you have plans."

"_We_ have plans," I corrected. "Now, I let you traipse through here yesterday, showing me things like you owned the place—"

"—which, until yesterday, I did," he interjected.

"—which you did for a _while_," I conceded. "And I…appreciate what you did—I want you to know that. But tonight it's my turn."

"Sookie—" he began.

"No, I don't want to hear it, Eric. I'm sure you had something planned, and as glamorous and exciting as it might have been, you can save it for later. Tonight we're doing what I want. We're going on a picnic." He stared back at me, utterly amused.

"I'm sure you make a tasty sandwich, lover, but you know I can't eat egg salad."

"Don't worry—I've got you covered."

"Mmm, I like that sound of that," he growled warmly, edging forward toward my neck and inhaling. I looked up at him, intending to give him a prim retort, but melting a little when I met his gaze. A strong, uncontrolled flash ran through my mind: _that is later_. The force of the thought, as well as its implications, frightened and excited me.

I recovered enough to respond, "You can save those insinuations as well."

"For later," Eric repeated, his eyes twinkling.

He followed me out of the house, strolling beside me down the path through the woods. The sound of crickets filled the air, and every now and then I caught the flash of a lightning bug. After about a mile, we came to the bank of the creek. Twilight was darkening into night, and the moon reflected off the surface of the water, cold and clear. Eric helped me set up the blanket, and we sat down together in companionable silence.

I opened the basket and pulled out the glasses. Eric seemed entertained that I had picked a dinner so visually similar to his own. As if we were sharing it.

"Allow me." He deftly uncorked the bottle with the wine opener I had packed and poured me a glass.

"Hmm," I baited, "I was kind of hoping you'd use your fangs." He chuckled darkly.

"So was I…"

My heart stuttered a little, and I felt my face flush. I let the moment pass, and opened his bottle of TruBlood. We exchanged glasses.

"To picnics," I saluted.

"To picnics," he echoed, clinking his glass against mine. He watched me drink first before he took a sip. A slight grimace ghosted over his face. I knew TruBlood wasn't his preference, but I was not ready to offer him something more substantial.

"How's that tasting, Eric?" I teased.

"Fantastico," he replied wryly. I smiled.

We talked on into the evening as the moon rose higher and higher. He was proving to be a congenial listener as I described my day, minus the Eric troubles. Eventually, though, my earlier concerns resurfaced. I was enjoying our time together, but I still had no idea what I meant to him. The conversation lapsed into silence. I wanted to continue, but I wasn't sure how to ask.

Eric sensed the mood change, and initiated his own tactic.

"If I remember correctly from yesterday," he began, "I think I owe you a foot rub."

I looked at him sharply. It was hardly surprising that Eric would respond to a lull in conversation with a physical action, especially an intimate one. But it occurred to me that up until this point, he had given me control over the evening. He had respected my decisions, and only now, when he felt my hesitation, did he offer a suggestion. Looking into his dark gleaming eyes, I decided to go with it.

"Sure. Knock yourself out."

I shifted on the blanket until I was at his side facing him, my legs slung over his. He removed my shoes and started on my feet. Soon afterward, though, his hands were drifting casually over the entire length of my legs, stroking, massaging, but never losing control, never squeezing too tight, never pushing things over into more intimate territory. It felt…amazing. My earlier worries began to recede as I relaxed into his touch. After a few minutes, I could feel his erection against my thigh, but he never called attention to it. It was merely a background indicator that this simple action had a deeper counterpoint, making the calm exchange more erotic. My blood warmed, my pulse quickened, my eyes brightened, but I stayed still as well, watching him watching me.

In that moment, I had a realization. If anything was going to happen between us, it wouldn't be because I was swept away by passion alone. Or because I was wildly affected by drinking his blood. I would make a decision. He would make a decision. And then all hell would break loose. I felt stronger, suddenly, recognizing the kind of partnership this suggested. I was in control as much as he was. He didn't want to coerce me—he wanted me to choose.

It felt good to revel in the moment, to absorb the still, quiet warmth without an explicit expectation. It reminded me of my early experiences of attraction, when arousal was new and gentle and calm, mostly because it was barely understood. There was only the warm sensation of sensual aliveness, and the endless stretch of time. That is, until the mood broke—usually because some unwelcome stray thought was funneling out of the other partner straight into my head. I thanked my stars again for Eric's gift of silence.

I scooted closer to him, melting a little against his strong frame. He unwound an arm from my legs to encircle my shoulders. In an instant, I remembered last night—how excited and charged I felt with his fingers stirring my hair. I was momentarily afraid that the current moment wouldn't live up to it, that somehow I would be less sensitive to his attention tonight. I was wrong.

Eric's fingers played delicately with my collarbone before moving higher, alternating between gently stroking my hair and the side of my face. A wave of warm, strong pleasure washed over me. After a while, I gave in and let my head fall gently against his shoulder. Turning slightly, he pressed an earnest kiss into my forehead—soft, protective, yearning, ambiguous.

After a few moments, Eric inhaled, and a hum rumbled out of his chest long and low. His words surprised me when they finally came.

"Do you know what synaesthesia is, lover?" he asked after a few moments.

"No," I murmured lazily. One of my hands drifted to his chest and rested there.

"Officially defined, it is 'a subjective sensation or image of a sense other than the one being stimulated.'"

"Mm, try again, cowboy." He chuckled against me, playfully mussing my hair a little.

"It's like...having two sensations at once that don't fit together. Or rather, that aren't objectively related. That aren't causal. One's in the real world, and the other is...internal." I looked at him blankly. "For example," he tried again, "if I described the experience of anger as orange, or said my favorite food tasted like sunshine."

"Like a metaphor?"

"Not exactly," he replied thoughtfully, still stroking my hair. "It's more than a description; it's sensual evocation. Instead of using the words to make a comparison, I would actually _feel_ those sensations associated, in flashes. Spontaneously. Instantaneously. A connection that only I had, that only I would feel." I froze for a moment.

"Like, if I said that when I touch you, I sense elderflowers and leather and new fallen snow, even though I know they're not really there?" His hand paused for a moment, surprised.

"Yes, lover. Exactly like that." He resumed stroking my hair, before his curiosity got the better of him. "Do you sense those things, Sookie? When you feel me?"

"Sometimes…I do."

"Mmm," Eric growled in response, gripping me a little tighter. A new thought seemed to occur to him. "So…you're a telepath who is also synaesthetic. That seems dangerous, somehow."

"Why's that?" I asked, pulling back slightly. "You mean, because of the people I can hear? How would I know where the other person stops and I begin?"

"I suppose. You must feel all kinds of things. At all moments."

"A lot of the time, I do. But," I continued simply, "my feelings are strongest." I unwrapped myself from his embrace and turned to face him, folding my legs under me. "What about you?"

"Yes. I've been synaesthetic for as long as I can remember. After Godric turned me, though, it was harder to tell. My senses were so heightened it took several years before I could parse out what was real from what was subjective. And unlike you, the strongest sensations I feel aren't always mine." He smiled down at me a little and raised his eyebrows playfully. "But they are often the weirdest."

"Oo, I like where this is going. Do tell, Mr. Northman."

"Well, for instance, whenever I hear your national anthem? I taste blood sausage. Which is actually quite amazing, since I haven't had one in a millennium." I laughed aloud.

"That's very American of you. Minus the blood part, of course."

"Of course—you Americans and your fear of entrails," he chided. "And for the last century, whenever I stand in cold water, I hear 'The Blue Danube' playing for some reason." I chuckled, enjoying this rare glimpse of inner Eric.

"And when I have sex," he murmured, his voice dropping considerably, flirtatious but not overpowering, "I smell the most interesting things."

"I'll bet you do," I tossed back.

"Well, there is that. But not exactly what I meant, lover," he continued unapologetically. "I smell strange things—like tangerines or wet ink or smoldering incense. Things that are out of place, but fit the present experience." His eyes shimmered in the darkness. "It may sound odd, but I deeply treasure those moments, those feelings. Because… because…" His thought trailed off into nothing, a small smile playing on his lips. He looked a little lost.

"Because…those feelings remind you who you are," I finished for him, understanding.

"They do." We regarded each other in silence.

"So…" I started shyly. This was my moment to ask. "What do you…what do you sense now? With me?"

A guarded look came into his eyes. He turned away from me slightly, and stared into the distance. I had never seen him look so still, so ancient, so far away. I began to regret the question, although I was more curious than ever about the answer. Several long moments passed.

Eric finally turned to me, his eyes full and open, but still he hesitated. He reached across and took my hand in his, a gesture more old-fashioned than the touches we'd shared earlier, but somehow more intimate. Quieter. Personal.

"Right now I sense many things, Sookie. More than I can count. But, as you say, there is one that's strongest." He shrugged at me simply before uttering one word. "Home."


	3. Chapter 3

**Teeth in the Grass: Chapter 3**

_Eric's Interlude_

Ignoring Pam, my staff, and countless onlookers, I doggedly made my way through the Fangtasia throng to my office. Once inside, I banged the door shut, yanked out my chair, and slammed down into it. I closed my eyes and willed control into every fiber of my being. Although I sat absolutely motionless, my entire body was vibrating, humming, focused on Sookie's blood. Scattered images of her body flooded my senses—her neck, the curve of her breasts, her skinny anklebones. I saw them all. I wanted them all. I wanted inside.

It had been a simple evening. I wasn't surprised by her choice of activity—although she had been right; my plans _were_ more extravagant. I enjoyed her company. I reveled in any chance to be near her, to sense her heart beat, to touch her golden skin. Sookie was bright and amusing, and she made my mouth water. I had already admitted to myself long ago that I was a little obsessed with her, that I wanted her, and that I would do anything in my power to convince her to desire me, to choose me, too. My acquiescence to her tonight seemed justified on all of those fronts. I would go through whatever motions were necessary to make that occur.

Why, then, did I have this throbbing desire to protect her as well as bury myself in her? To make her smile as well as tongue her senseless? To learn the details of her life as well as the intricacy of her flavor? It was beyond anything I'd felt for other lovers, and different from what I felt for Pam. It was…unnerving.

Humans' fervent desire to know my emotions always amused me. I spent little time thinking about them, and they almost never guided my actions. In the human culture I came from, we didn't discuss them at all.

Vampires are creatures of sensation. We trust what we can smell, touch, taste, hear, and see. The senses are stronger, richer, and fuller than emotions, and usually easier to navigate. In this instance, though, they were complicated. Almost compromised.

I meant what I told Sookie about my synaesthetic reaction to her, though I doubted she grasped the full import of it. When I was with her earlier in the night, seated close and warm, trusting and open, I was flooded with so many sense memories and images they nearly choked me. They were not all from my human life, but from my scattered experience: I heard the cooking fire in my family tent, smelled the soft loam of the underground den I shared with Godric, felt the cool sensation of clean sheets on my wide modern bed. In that moment, I wanted to grab her and crush her to me, to squeeze the sensations out of her, to let them wash over me with no regard for her feelings, her safety, or her desire.

But at the same time, I felt a new, separate, warring pleasure, almost as strong as the first: restraint. This was different than the kind of tacit control I always operated under, the kind born out of confidence and power, where I almost always knew I could have whatever I wanted if I only took action. No, this pleasure was differently motivated. By regard, respect, and affection.

I thought back to the end of the evening, to the quiet stroll home through the woods. The amusing walk to the front door for the oh-so-prosaic goodnight kiss. When Sookie turned to face me, though, her brown eyes glowing, lips soft and full, it didn't feel cliché. It felt necessary. I brought my hand to the back of her neck, threading my fingers into her golden hair. I lowered my face to hers.

When her lips touched mine, more sensations burst through me—the color red, the smell of old-growth forest, the sound of the word "languid." My fangs descended as my arms locked around her, and I pressed myself into her small frame, seeking more, different, better, _everything_ in her mouth. I barely registered her response until I felt her tongue slip into mine.

Her passion distracted and exhilarated me, and I opened myself to her exploration. She reached up, running her hands through my hair and pulling me down to her even more firmly. Then, tentatively, bravely, Sookie stroked my fangs with her tongue. A hairline fissure opened along the surface where she had licked me, and her exquisite, mind-numbing, impossible taste flooded my mouth.

Whether she did it on purpose or not, I did not know. A growl tore through me as I sucked her into my mouth, my throat, my entire system. Wild sensations exploded inside me, and my hands ran hungry and unbound along the length of her body. I felt all of my intentions fall away at the experience of her taste. I longed to take her into me, to fuck her on the floorboards, to drink her down, with no intention of stopping.

Then I heard her breathless gasp. Immediately—so fast I stunned myself—I stopped. Even my desire, so strong a moment ago I felt my control slip out of me, faded into the background. It was still potent, but turned down like a dial. Instantly we were back to Eric and Sookie, back to affection and respect. Restraint.

We parted for the evening soon after that. I didn't remember what she said or what I did. All I could sense was the steady pulse of her blood, and the competing pleasures inside: raw possession and regard. Excess and control. Violent passion and restraint.

My fists locked around the edge of my desk, bringing me back to the present. I wanted them all, I realized. At the same time. My body clenched with anticipation.

Tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you, friends, for your follows, and your kind words and encouragement! This is the last update for "Teeth in the Grass"—I am about to become buried under a work landslide, so I can't keep up the pace anymore—but this has been a great first fanfic experience for me. In my field, I do a very different kind of writing, so it has been exciting and illuminating to remember how to play with words, to put them to different effect. Thanks for reminding me that writing can be such a pleasure! I hope you took some in it, too.

**Teeth in the Grass: Chapter 4**

"_And when there's nothing to want  
when we're all brilliant and fast  
when all tomorrow's are gone  
there will be teeth in the grass_"

—Iron and Wine

I lay awake, tangled in the sheets. The end of the evening replayed countless times in my head—Eric's sensual admission, his confident hands on my body, his hot, wild eyes as he tasted me, and his sudden, restrained stillness. His control shocked me, almost as much as his excessive passion had. I admired it. I envied it. And most surprisingly, I realized I could trust it.

The first rays of sunshine filtered into my bedroom as I relived our final exchange. When Eric had pulled away, I remained motionless, gasping for air, desirous and unsteady. He gave me a long, hungry look before turning to leave. I managed to stammer out, "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Lover," he answered back, his eyes fixed upon me, unwavering, "it is inevitable."

Remembering his assurance, a sense of calm swept over me, and my restlessness faded. My exhaustion made the truth undeniable: I wanted him, too. Completely.

I finally slept.

When I woke, it was late afternoon. My earlier sense of calm lingered, and instead of obsessively polishing my body or overanalyzing my wardrobe, I showered and dressed simply. I wandered into the backyard, beneath Eric's ancient tree. Though I expected it to seem out of place, it didn't. It, too, felt…inevitable.

Struck with a strange urge, I decided to climb it. I hadn't climbed a tree since I was a kid playing with Jason, but I remembered the fun of figuring one out like a puzzle. It wasn't long before I'd reach the upper branches. Breathless from my exertion, I settled in against the trunk.

For a long while I remained still, listening to the wind shimmer the leaves. But when the sun burned low on the horizon, sending orange streaks across the sky, I moved. Clambering out on the limb until I was over the roof, I dropped onto it and climbed to the highest point. I sat in silence, watching the sun go down.

As the last lingering flash of light fled the horizon, I felt a stab of anxiety return. Although I knew what I wanted, I had no plans; I had no expectations of how the evening would go. At the same time, a quiet inner voice whispered there was no need to work so hard—not if it was inevitable.

I felt Eric before I saw him. My entire body flushed as I sensed him land on the roof behind me. I remained still, though my blood was hammering so violently I was sure he could feel it.

"Caught you." I looked over my shoulder and found him: his charismatic stance, his dancing eyes, his irresistible smirk. Entirely overwhelming. I smiled in greeting. Nimbly, he picked his way across the roof to join me. He pulled his knees up, folded his arms against them, and watched quietly as the light faded from the sky.

"So…what's the plan?" I asked after a moment.

"My plan? After yesterday?" He feigned indignation at the question. "I'm a fast learner, Sookie. I know better than to presume."

"Oh, I take one evening away from you," I taunted back, "and now you can't be bothered with a little forethought?" He shrugged.

"I suppose I just assumed we could work something out. Find something we'd both like to do. Together." He arched his eyebrows in droll suggestion, but his gaze was so sexy and pointed I had to look away. "Why are you up here, by the way?" he finally asked.

"Well, I was climbing your tree—you know, communing with nature—" Eric snorted wryly. "—when I figured, why stop there? A little danger always spices up the day."

"I see." His eyes twinkled. "Seeking out a bit of the sublime, then?"

"Pardon?"

"The sublime—the edge of ecstasy and terror."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say sitting a couple stories up on my house is bringing me to the edge of ecstasy and terror…"

"Hmmm. I may be able to help you with that…" He was teasing me, I knew, but my heart stuttered out a very real answer. Eric heard it.

The mood changed immediately as his expression filled with hopeful, guarded anticipation. He tilted his head. I shrugged my shoulders. He held my gaze intently, waiting for my consent. I finally nodded, grinning helplessly at him—light, buoyant, free.

"Now _that_ is a plan I can get behind."

In an instant, he grabbed me to him, and shot us straight into the air. I clung to him wildly, unable to process how fast we were moving, where we were, what position my body was in—any of it. A deep growl rumbled through his chest as he sensed my fear and exhilaration. His firm hands locked around me, intimate and secure. He was enjoying this. It excited me beyond measure.

We continued like that for some time, soaring at a near-blinding speed as the night sky dissolved into blackness. Countless lights blinked on and blurred beneath us, creating an atmosphere that felt uncanny, ethereal, otherworldly. It took me a while to discover he was playing with height and velocity, skimming us low over dark water, surging us high into the milk white vapor of clouds. A laugh tore through me, and I clutched him closer.

"Feel free to look down," Eric shouted to me with open joy. "There is nothing quite like it." The wind rushed around us impossibly fast. When I turned my face to his, though, I found I didn't want to. And not out of fear. I simply realized there wasn't anything more beautiful or necessary to look at.

After a few minutes, he became aware of my gaze. His youthful exhilaration faded and a different, smoldering spark flared in his eyes.

"Do you want to return?" he asked. I nodded my head against him. Eric smiled. "Had enough of the sublime?"

I paused before answering. Fully aware of my action, knowing exactly how he would interpret it, I slowly shook my head. He understood instantly, inhaling sharply. A profound savagery pulsed through him into me.

"Oh lover," he breathed, and shot us even faster through the night sky toward home.

We reached the house sooner than I expected, and my mind buzzed with a hundred questions, desires, and anxieties. But when Eric swooped us through my bedroom window and stood towering above me, his hands at my waist, his mouth on mine, everything hot and urgent and inevitable, I felt my senses take over. Brilliant, nameless fragments of images, tastes, and sounds shot through me at the feel of him, the size of him, and my desire bloomed strong and insistent. I wondered if Eric felt that way all the time.

Hard or soft, slow or fast—it didn't matter to me. I wanted as much Eric as possible. My hands ran up his body, slipping under his shirt, feeling his smooth, hard skin. I pressed myself into him to absorb as much of his feel as I could. He smiled down at me with wicked, controlled confidence, reveling in my desire for him.

I had a sudden impulse to shock him, to challenge him, to see if I could draw out his primal urges. I backed away from him and pulled my shirt off, watching as his fangs slid down. Still, Eric waited, drinking me in. Taking his hand, I walked him slowly to the bed and pushed him down onto the edge. I brought my hand up to his face and stroked my fingers softly against his lips. Instinctively they parted for me. He brushed his nose against my fingers, inhaling. Very carefully, I ran my thumb over an exposed fang.

The blood instantly welled to the surface. Eric's body seized sharply. I waited to see would he would do.

Again, he stunned me with his control. Instead of mindlessly sucking me into his mouth, he licked the line slowly, savoring the flavor. Even more impossibly, with the tiniest nick of his tongue, I realized he was healing me with the same action. My skin knit back together under his gentle, fervent caress. Though my desire was fierce before, it was nothing compared to the new, riotous arousal that consumed me.

And then Eric moved.

Slowly, placing one hand on my chest and coiling the other behind me, he lowered me back onto the bed. His eyes burned with restrained desire. Seductively, deliberately, he took my arm in his hand, and slid his fang up the side of it. A long, stunning trail of crimson appeared. I gasped. He repeated his action from before, licking the length of it, tasting me and healing me in one sensual motion. I was so aroused I could barely function. He continued the dark, decadent exploration of my skin with his fangs and tongue, opening and closing, rupturing and soothing, heating and cooling, up the length of my arms, against my neck, across my breasts. I may have started the action, but my God was he finishing it.

Unbelievably, I was the one who finally stopped it, who couldn't take it anymore. Almost insensible, I willed myself to action and grabbed a fistful of his hair. His head jerked upward at once, a trickle of blood smeared in the stubble near his mouth, his eyes almost feral in the dimly lit room. Overcome with want, I dragged him to me and plunged my tongue into his mouth.

I felt a change in him, as if he was roaring at me, though I heard nothing audible. He grasped my hip in his hand, and crushed his erection against me, showing me how difficult his gentle display had been, how massive his arousal actually was. In that instant, I needed him, all of him, on display, against me, around me, in me. I tore at his clothes with both hands until he was naked.

Was I prepared for how beautiful he would be? Perhaps. But not for how it would affect me. In the moment, I needed him more than air, water, food—anything. Eric seemed to understand my urgency, and quickly stripped the rest of my clothes off. The sight of me bare and pulsing left him insatiable as well, and he fell upon my body fervently, stroking, tonguing, and teasing. He was everywhere—my hair, the backs of my knees, the side of my ribcage, my toes—feeding my lust. His body vibrated with pleasure, and I opened to him in every way I could.

When the pain of being without him almost overwhelmed the pleasure of his attention, Eric pushed into me, hard and heavy and full. I arched against him in wordless elation, accepting him deeply. He felt strong and new but also familiar, as though he had been there before, perhaps all along.

I expected him to continue his sensual onslaught, but he did not. He stilled in me and pulled back. Gazing into my eyes with frightening, raw possession, he pierced his own thumb on his fang, drawing an orb of blood to the tip. My mouth opened hungrily to take him in, but he brought it to my lips slowly, with import.

"Now I want you to taste _me_, lover," he murmured. The air crackled with intensity. My senses were on fire, but my mind was sure and calm. I stared up at him and licked the droplet away. My world exploded. Through the multitude of colors and images, smells and tastes that swirled around me, I was vaguely aware of his distant growl of pleasure. He thrust into me once, hard and fast.

"Tell me what you sense," he whispered.

If I could have, I would have laughed at the insanity of his request. It was nearly impossible to articulate anything while he filled me so completely. With the steady, electric pull of his body and the overwhelming rush of his blood, I felt he was breaking into my sense of self and scattering my feelings in an impossible outward spray. He pushed into me again. I cried out and tried.

"Whiskey. Birchwood. Fire," I gasped, breathless. Though utter nonsense, it seemed to drive Eric out of his mind. He thrust into me in earnest, bringing me higher and closer with his heated pace and his beautiful fingers. More sensations flooded me, and I watched him unhinge at my words: "Ice, terror, blackness. Heat. Wisdom. Earth, life, light." My words dissolved into helpless screams as he rocked into me harder, his eyes feverish, shockingly aware. He moaned and rolled us until I was astride him. He filled me completely.

"There is no one like you," he strained against me. "There is no one else." His admission sent me over the edge. I cried out, long and loud and unembarrassed, shattering around him, falling through space and time, awash in the unimaginable, singular, ecstatic experience of Eric.

When my eyes finally fluttered open again, I saw his grin of pleasure, his raw satisfaction, and his continued need. I beamed back at him, warm, aroused. He raised his eyebrows, as though asking permission, and I couldn't help myself from smiling, nodding, pulling him back up into me. He growled aggressively, and I bit back a shriek as he flipped us again, pounding into me faster and fuller than I thought possible. When he finally came, it was without sound, just a sharp exhalation of breath and a wild look of abandon as he pulsed in relief. I'd never seen anything so beautiful in my life.

A few moments later, Eric settled back onto the bed facing me. We smiled at each other in silence.

"That was a good fucking plan," I said, finally.

"Blindingly good," he answered immediately. We laughed together, breathless, before silence swallowed us again. Moonlight streamed in through the window. His profile glowed.

"Eric…"

"Yes, lover?"

"Are we…are we really doing this?" I asked in a small voice. He stroked a lock of hair away from my face, and pressed a deep kiss into my temple. My heart swelled in my chest.

"It's already done."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I just couldn't stay away from this story. A little more of the last evening from Eric's perspective. Lemons…

**Teeth in the Grass: Chapter 5**

_Eric's Outro_

The moon had changed angles, sending a silvery afterglow through the open window. The clock on the wall gently ticked out the time. I lay beside Sookie, stretched out, naked, but not sated, not content.

I was waiting.

She slept. Vulnerable and soft and brave. I knew what it meant for Sookie to let her guard down around me—it was more than just exhaustion from our activities. It was trust. My chest swelled.

I was aware of every part of her. Her hair tumbling over my shoulder. My thumb against the pulse of her inner wrist. Her knee splayed across my thigh. I still wanted to take her—her blood, her body, her sense of self—but for all my riotous desires, I managed to stay still. My senses were saturated, full to bursting. Instead of urging me to act, though, they kept me in suspended animation, hovering at the edge of reckless abandon.

Again, I was struck by a wild equilibrium between raw desire and tender regard. It was a tense balance—the next moment always unpredictable, in question, requiring vigilance—but I loved it. It was a challenge to maintain, and I wanted to push myself. This was the true sublime—the place between the ecstasy of dominant possession and the terror of destructive loss. I would stay in it as long as I could.

As if she felt my thoughts, as if to test me further, Sookie turned in my arms, rolling to her side. She pressed back into me with the uninhibited sensuality that comes in sleep, and I shifted, resting my erection in the small of her back. I could feel her blood thrum through her body, sending a cascade of sensations into me—hot violet, pounding ocean—and a wave of lust almost overreached my tenuous control. My fangs descended. I lay still and breathed into it, accepting and denying the potent desire to puncture.

I felt the growl rumble out of my chest before I heard it. It reverberated against Sookie's skin, and she stirred against me, gradually gaining awareness.

"Lover. You're back," I smiled.

She shivered, arching into me, pulling at my hands so they encircled her waist. I knew she found this pose comforting; I found it pleasurable, too. But after laying awake for hours, throbbing in silence as the sun's approach neared, I did not want more tacit calm, more gentle stillness.

I wanted _her_.

Since our relationship changed, I had yet to drink from her. I'd only tasted her exquisite, superlative blood through small sensual cuts that fed my arousal instead of sating it. I wanted to know if I could handle more, if I could keep my balance while still giving myself over to pleasure. I knew earlier in the night she had been testing her own boundaries—how far she was willing to follow her desires, however dark—and I had enjoyed watching her explore her experience as well as my reaction to it. Now it was my turn to push the limits, to feel out my new partner.

Instead of caressing her, I stroked my hands firmly down her sides, awakening her desire. I felt her pulse increase, her breathing turn erratic. Soon her response stirred me as well, and my hands went to tease her breasts without a conscious command. Her soft gasps nearly set me ablaze, and I rolled so that she was stretched out across me on her back, rocking into me, showing me her need. My hands now had free reign to explore her, and I stroked every part I could reach. Curling my head to the side, I pressed my fangs to her neck.

Though I thought she was beyond words, I heard her whisper distinctly, "This is what I want." She brought her hand to the back of my head, and pushed me insistently into her.

I needed no further encouragement. Gripping her hips in both my hands, I readied myself. I teased her skin briefly with the sharp points before I sank my fangs into her.

What came next defied belief.

I was accustomed to feeding on the living—in my millennium of experience, I had tasted many variations and logged away all of my responses. Depending on the quality of the blood and the surrounding circumstances, feeding could trigger a frenzied impulse, a violent insatiability that struck me ravenous and threatened the life pulsing in my arms. Sometimes it caused a sensuous ripple to spread through me, urging me to take my time and savor the moment. Still others evoked curiosity, prompting me to drink deeper, to determine the source of the flavor. Over the years, I had come to expect all of these impulses, to recognize the desires and respond appropriately to manage the situation. It had been hundreds of years since I had a response I was not aware of, that I could not control.

Vampires pride themselves on sensual awareness, even inside of experiences of extreme pleasure. I had grown exceptionally good at it. Even my synaesthetic responses did not alter my detailed awareness of the physical world.

But Sookie was different.

As her blood trickled into my system, I almost immediately lost consciousness. Any sense of my concrete surroundings was utterly gone. I was suddenly floating—naked, empty, and free—in a gray, bottomless sea. I felt water, warm and inviting, lapping at my skin, and golden rays of the sun filtering hazily through a silver sheen of clouds. I breathed in and felt tiny salt crystals bloom in my lungs, bobbing weightless and content upon the surface of the water. A beach of white shimmering sand stretched out endlessly to one edge of the horizon, while the sea continued on infinitely to the other. I had no desires. I had no needs. For the first time I could remember, I felt true balance.

Everything came roiling back with a vengeance a moment later when I felt Sookie grasp my cock and slide it languidly against her sex. Instantly I snapped into the present, my physical arousal, impossibly, stronger than it had been before the feeding. The surge between absolute calm and reckless desire was disorienting, unsettling. Maddening, even. Taking Sookie had never felt like a more desperate necessity.

She was still on her back stretched across me, writhing softly. She had no idea what had happened, where I had gone. I felt instinctively, as I never had before, that she was something different, something _more_, something I had to wrap myself around and pull into me, to chain myself to forever.

With one last ragged drag at her throat, I grabbed her to me aggressively and flipped her forward. She rose onto her hands and knees in anticipation. I circled her hot silk before burying myself in her fully.

"Eric!" she screamed out, as though summoning me, dragging me out of myself and further into her. She tightened, and I felt myself fade from the present again.

There was no quiet, peaceful sea this time. I just felt red—hot, wet, pulsing _red_, swirling around me, filling my nose, flooding my tongue with an indescribably delicious essence, increasing instead of quenching my thirst. I gasped inside of it, desirous and unhinged. It was as though I had fallen into Sookie's blood where I would gladly stay, thrusting, drinking, and drowning until the end of time.

Piercing through my unconscious, I heard Sookie's cry of overwhelmed pleasure, and I returned to the moment just in time to feel her climax around me. I wanted to cry out from exhaustion at the multiplicity of total-body experiences she had me careening between, but I also needed to regain and assert my control. For her, perhaps, but mostly for myself. I gripped her hips in determination, and drove into her hard and fast until I lost myself.

I collapsed back onto the bed, bringing her with me, shattered and shaken. She laughed playfully, charged by the experience. It took her a minute to notice my dazed state.

"Eric? Everything ok?" I shook my head to clear it.

"Everything is…unbelievable, lover." She glanced at me somewhat skeptically.

"You look exhausted. Where's this legendary stamina I've heard so much about?"

I gave her a long look before crushing my mouth to hers, releasing my pent-up angst and exhaustion, as well as my increasing devotion and desire. Though taken aback, she soon hummed into my mouth, opening to my tongue. It was not long before we were entwined together again.

"Wow. I should goad you more often," she laughed afterward, staring up into my eyes, warm and dazzling. A sudden rush surged through my chest. I wanted to tell her everything, to explain what happened when I drank her and took her—how I fell into her, how she swallowed me up and enveloped every part of me, and how I wanted to do it again and again, every night for the rest of my existence.

But daylight was coming. I kissed her, softly this time, and reluctantly unwound her limbs from my body. Some uncertainty returned to her eyes.

"Tonight...?"

"It's mine," I answered quickly. "You couldn't keep me away."

She beamed at me, and kissed me with a force that threatened to pull me under again. I broke away from her and walked to the window.

Despite the impending danger of sunrise, I couldn't quite bring myself to leave. Everything I wanted—desire, turbulence, balance—was still in the room. I turned back to her with a bemused, uncharacteristic grin and shrugged helplessly. She seemed to understand, and broke into a full, long laugh. Her joy finally propelled me forward. Just as I shot out of the frame, I heard her utter a single word. _My_ word.

"Lover."

It reverberated through me, strong and warm and resonant, as I rocketed through the lightening sky.

She was. I was. We were.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N:_ More! I thought I was done, but I can't seem to let go. _

_I'm thinking of this as the beginning of a Part II—the first 5 chapters are a stand-alone lead-up to the relationship, and this is the start of actual relationship development. Because I'm more interested in character study/interiority than plot, things might be off-canon. Forgive me for that._

_Also, there are lemons. _

_Let me know if you think a Part II is sustainable… Thanks!_

**Teeth in the Grass Part II: Chapter 6**

Music pounded hard and loud through my chest. A sea of faces bobbed in time, smiling, oblivious. I checked my watch again. It was 12:33am. My heart fluttered, out of sync, unstable.

I was waiting for Eric.

Though only a few days had passed since we first made love, it seemed like the entire world had altered. We spent every night together since in our own insular cocoon, though we hadn't talked about what the change meant. The lack of spoken decisions weighed on me and charged our interactions, intensifying even the smallest exchanges.

For my part, I was concerned about what such a discussion might reveal. I had a suspicion that Eric's idea of a committed relationship was different than mine. He seemed like an "all or nothing" type of person, and though I didn't want the "nothing," I was concerned about what the "all" might entail. He still struggled with a fierceness that almost scared me every time he tasted my blood, which made things seem both exciting and unsustainable.

Last night, after several intense hours, Eric had remarked, breathless and truthful, "We've gotten serious awfully fast, lover." Even with my desire to arrive at something conclusive, I realized he was right. Between the vivid physical unions and the weight of the supernatural, we were missing the lightness that generally accompanied romantic beginnings. I told him I agreed; it was time for some fun.

Going out seemed like the first step. Tonight I was attempting to incorporate our new relationship into the external world—Eric was going to pick me up from a party at Jesus' house after he finished work. People were going to see us together. They were probably going to talk.

I was dancing with Jesus in the garden when Eric arrived alone, his fists shoved deep into the pockets of his black leather jacket. I spotted him immediately. His eyes gleamed as he took in my body posture, breasts pressed against Jesus' chest, hands about his neck. Instead of advancing to meet me, he settled against the side of the house, enjoying the show. I continued to dance.

Jesus didn't seem to notice Eric, but left me a moment later to check on Lafayette and another party guest who were arguing with increasing intensity about the quality of the food. While I was listening to Jesus' internal debate over whether to intervene politely or punch the offending person, Eric had already advanced through the throng of people and kissed me hard and full on the mouth.

"What are you doing?!" I asked, taken aback by his exuberant display, embarrassed. I knew Eric didn't care particularly about how my friends viewed our relationship, but I did.

"Having fun," he returned, his eyes twinkling.

"We need to talk about what 'fun' means in different contexts, sir," I said sternly.

"Mm. You should call me 'Sir' more often…" he leered, swooping down until his eyes were level with mine. He ran his nose along my temple into my hairline, inhaling deeply. "And I believe I disagree, Miss Stackhouse," he whispered. "We don't need to talk about anything."

I began to reply, but Eric pretended not to hear, covering my mouth in jest. I shot him an incredulous look. But when he smiled down at me, all warmth and affection, I found I couldn't resist. I rasped my tongue against his palm and bit him lightly. A small shock of surprise turned into a wicked glimmer. He pulled me to him, pushing my skirt up a little, finding my ass.

He quickly walked me to the edge of the garden, picking me up and lifting me onto the low concrete wall at the back. Eric positioned himself between my legs so I faced the party guests, but he blocked any view of my body. He mimed "Shh" more than said it, while his other hand slipped into my underwear.

A week ago, I would have slapped him. I would have been appalled at his, really _anyone's_, shameless disregard for social circumstance, for appropriate behavior. But something had changed in me, something wild had taken root in my heart, and I had no desire to resist his actions. In fact, I welcomed them.

He stilled for a moment, gauging my reaction. I gave him the most helpless of small smiles and nodded. He began to move his fingers.

It felt…stupidly good. I looked at him with accusation more than arousal, and his lips curled into a dangerously sexy smile. He mouthed the word "fun" one more time and continued. I stayed as still and as quiet as I possibly could, forcing my face into an approximation of what it would look like if we were merely talking, but it was damn difficult, his eyes boring into mine, dark and possessive.

Eric could tell I was about to come by my ragged intake of breath, the way my muscles began to clench against him, and he looked at me with liquid fire. At just that moment, a passerby jostled into him, jarring his hand even further within me. I could hardly hold the scream back.

"AAHH!" I shouted, eyes wide, before attempting to shift the sound into a laugh of some sort, my body quaking. Though I feared for a moment Eric might kill the interrupter, he instead burst out in laughter as well. The passerby regarded us strangely, unaware of what he had done, unsure of whether to apologize or not, before disappearing into the crowd. Eric removed his hand and kissed me.

"That was surprisingly contained, lover," he murmured. "If not for our friend back there, I think you might have stayed completely silent." He frowned slightly. "I might have to rethink my approach…" My chest still heaved as aftershocks ran through me. I laughed at him.

"Not that you need the boost, but it wasn't easy." Eric placed his hands on either side of me on the wall, chuckling.

"Now that we have _that_ out of the way… What's next?"

I didn't have to think twice. I raised my eyebrows suggestively.

"Your place." A possessive rumble vibrated through him. An instant later, we were swinging swiftly through the crowd. I barely had time to kiss Jesus and Lafayette goodbye—Eric nodded wryly, which they handled with generous civility, considering the history between them—before we were in his sports car, speeding away.

Perhaps leaving early was cheating the plan somehow. We had barely spent time at the party at all. Still, being in public together felt concretizing in some sense (despite our inappropriate display), and things already felt lighter between us—we couldn't keep from giggling.

Then I remembered where we were going. I'd never been to Eric's place before, and I was suddenly concerned. I was uncomfortable with conspicuous displays of wealth—as I was with so many aspects of Eric's life when confronted by them—and I was worried I would have to deal with the judgments and fears I was hell-bent on pushing away for the evening.

When we arrived, I was pleasantly surprised. Once we breached the rather high wall surrounding it, Eric's house was a small, gray concrete and glass modernist affair. I couldn't fathom who built it in Louisiana—it seemed so out of the purview of any architect who would live nearby. The glass panels that made up most of the walls shocked me—the house was so open, warm light spilling out, illuminating the still, pale aqua pool. White sandstone and clear water. Simple. Sleek. Beautiful.

Eric took in my fixation. "Care for a swim?" he asked.

"Sure. Pools can be fun," I replied. I was curious about the rest of the house, though, and I had a feeling that if we started things in the water, we might never leave. "May I use the restroom first?"

"There's one in my bedroom—take the stairs." As I turned to go, he began to remove his clothes, leaving only a pair of black boxer briefs, for my sake I assumed. His pale skin was luminous in the moonlight. Desire shot through every fiber of my being. It made it almost impossible to leave him.

Eric's bedroom was the basement, huge and wide, the length of the entire house. The walls were also rendered in pale sandstone, soft white light flooding from paper-lantern-style fixtures, making up for the lack of windows. It was the opposite of Fangtasia. It was a relief to see. The real Eric liked things clean, open, and transparent. Neutral and yet sexier than anything I had anticipated. It occurred to me that the aesthetic would highlight _him_; he would become the focal point wherever he moved in the room. I imagined him there, stretched out on the bed, naked and wanting.

"God, I want to fuck you," I whispered into his absence. I walked into the bathroom, stripped down to my underwear set, and returned outside.

Eric had floated to the bottom of the pool and lay there, absolutely still, motionless as a stone. When he heard me approach, his clear blue eyes snapped open, penetrating. He did not move. It was an unnerving, striking image, and profoundly sad. Not a bubble escaped to the surface.

In that moment, he was so totally and completely _other_. I knew that, of course, knew it before, but now I felt almost crushed by the weight of it. I was different, too, but nowhere near _that_ different. All the feelings I had attempted to keep at bay flooded my consciousness. My heart ached.

With the sadness, though, came a sort of…pride. There was something dignified, righteous even, about Eric that clashed with his identity as a dangerous predator. He was a defiant person who something both amazing and terrible had happened to, who chose to continue, who not only adapted to his new life but thrived in it, transformed it, made it into his own. I realized I did not pity him. I admired him terribly.

And no matter what, damn it, I was determined to have _fun _with him tonight. I pushed the thoughts from my mind and made a shallow dive into the pool. He instantly sprang to life and surfaced, pulling me to him, kissing me, soft and smooth as water.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered against my mouth, his hands playing with the black lace at my hips as he took in my body. My heart leapt.

"Not so bad yourself, cowboy." Though he smiled at my words, he seemed to sense my lingering sadness.

"So…welcome to Northman's, party of 2," he joked. "I hear humans play games at parties. Know anything water-related?"

"Well, I do have something in mind. I think we can adapt it…" I started playfully, my arms around his neck. "It's a little variation on the game we were playing earlier."

"Do tell…" he replied darkly.

"It's a quiet game." I slipped my hand into his underwear, taking hold of his erection and stroking it.

His eyes fluttered slightly, but he replied with an even, "Indeed?"

"Yes, the quieter the better." I pulled his boxers down and gripped him harder, running my hand down the length of him. I knew how powerfully he had wanted me all evening, and I was ready to play.

"What are the stakes, lover? Earlier, it was public embarrassment, potential humiliation in front of your friends. I don't seem to have much of an incentive to stay—" I pumped my hand once over him, firm and sure. He forced his eyes shut to remain composed. "—quiet," he finished admirably.

"Hmm… I'm not really into negatives. How about a reward system?"

"Mmmm…" he replied.

"If you stay quiet," I whispered into his ear, "you pick. Anytime. Anywhere."

"What makes you think I couldn't have that anyway?" he murmured dangerously. "What else?"

"Well, you'd have victory over me, which has got to be worth something." He laughed. "And, of course, you'll have a _guarantee_ I won't say no, no matter the situation…"

Something hot and mischievous flashed behind his eyes, and he suddenly uttered, "I'll take it." Momentarily alarmed, I pushed his reaction out of my head, focusing instead on his arousal.

I angled him to the shallow end of the pool, until he was seated on the rim, and took him into my mouth. Even though we had barely begun to learn each other's preferences, I felt it would be hard for him. Eric was vocal; he used words to instruct as well as inflame. I wanted to see what he would do, how he would acquiesce to me in silence.

He didn't succumb, though. If anything, he was more in control than ever. Instead of allowing me to tease him into a helpless state, he took silent charge of the situation, showing me that volume did not create power. It made me want to amend my rule, but it also turned me on completely.

Almost immediately after I began, Eric twined his fingers into my hair and rocked into my mouth, shifting my head softly until I understood the rhythm he wanted. Staring deeply into my eyes, he showed me exactly how I was affecting him, exactly what he needed, even though no sound escaped his lips. It was beyond erotic. Once he saw me submit to him, offer myself for his use, he took me deeper, thrusting harder and fuller. When he was ready, he stroked down the length of my throat with one confident hand, and I opened for him further. He didn't utter a sound, didn't even exhale as I felt him release, pulsing down my throat in silent longing. His eyes were black with victorious satisfaction but also wicked promise.

When Eric finally pulled away, I laughed, breathless, breaking the silence. He exhaled long and low, stretching back on the concrete, a hand across his forehead. His relief was palpable; it surprised me. I reveled in the display.

"Gods, woman," he murmured. "That was…difficult." He slipped back into the water and held me against him. I beamed with pleasure.

"No matter what I can tell you, no matter what I've said before, you have no idea what this feels like. What _you_ feel like," he said seriously, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. He ran the back of his hand down between my breasts in a gesture that owned as well as caressed. With shattering confidence, he continued: "I'm going to make you scream now, lover. Until you have no breath left. That is a promise."

"…does that mean you will be using your free pass?" I asked softly.

"Mmm," he hummed, "I don't think I have to." He reached down and lifted me into his arms, dripping wet and ready, kissing me leisurely as he brought me out of the water and down into his bedroom.

Indeed he did not.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: _Thank you, friends, for all your kind reads, adds, and words! I'm glad some of you feel there is more to tell. Looking forward to hearing what you think…_

**Teeth in the Grass Part II: Chapter 7**

Despite my concerns, the relationship was progressing. Over the past few weeks, Eric and I had fallen into a loose schedule. On nights he worked, I would go to his place and wait until he came home. On nights I worked, he would do the same at my house. When we were both occupied, whoever finished first would let the other know where they were headed. Though a little precious for Eric's taste, the routine was comforting.

Finishing up an evening shift, I checked my phone—I hadn't received a text, so I messaged Eric I was on my way. I was excited; I looked forward to my time alone in his house. It felt like I was learning something about him by osmosis.

Upon arrival, counter to my expectations, I was pleasantly surprised to find Eric already there. Though excited to see him, his activity brought me up short.

Eric was…cooking. His long, lanky figure stretched out above the stove, flipping something in a well-worn cast iron pan. He turned as I entered, effortlessly stylish. The action just did not seem to fit.

"You're cooking!" I exclaimed redundantly. He waited for me to continue, amused. "Is that…steak?!" I asked, taken aback though suddenly starving. He raised his eyebrows.

"Nothing gets past you, lover."

"Why are you doing that?!"

He shrugged.

"You feed me, I feed you." It seemed so simple I couldn't argue. He kissed me swiftly. I sat on the counter to supervise, peering suspiciously into the pan.

"...do you know what you're doing?"

"Don't I always?" I shot him a look. "Vikings love all sorts of flesh. You must know that. Sometimes I buy a dry-aged NY strip and cook it just for the smell."

"That is…more bizarre than I possibly could have imagined. Eric Northman has a meat fetish. So kinky." He winked mischievously at me, finishing the sear. I had to admit, the crust looked impeccable. Damn him.

He sat down with me to watch as I ate, his eyes bright with anticipation. It gave him such pleasure I almost laughed. I couldn't fault him, though—I felt a similar pride when I fed him. The comparison made me curious.

"Tell me what it's like," I asked as I finished.

"'It'?"

"You know, drinking me…"

"Mmm. Haven't I described it before?" Eric asked, circling my knuckles with his thumb.

"Tell me again," I breathed, already growing flushed. He chuckled.

"How to put it more memorably… You know the phrase _le petite mort_?"

"'The little death?'" I translated.

"Yes—the French euphemism for orgasm."

"Even kinkier…"

"But accurate, I think. _Le p__etite mort_—a little shock of death. When you orgasm, lover—I think that is the closest you will ever be to feeling like I do when I taste you. Heightened, beyond, suspended. Outside of time." He shifted in his chair, bringing his face closer to mine. "When you think of how you feel in those moments—weightless, absent, vibrating, free—death is not terrifying. It becomes…something to seek. Something to desire. Completing."

I exhaled unsteadily, filled with the import of his words. Though he hadn't strayed from the subject, I knew he was communicating something deeper.

"That's beautiful…"

"Yes," he grinned hungrily. "It's fucking gorgeous." He leaned across the table and kissed me lightly. I stared at him, blushing.

"Now I have to ask you something..." he started solemnly. I waited, concerned. He took a deep breath. "...how was my steak?"

I sighed through my amusement. Even his comic timing was impeccable.

We spent the rest of the evening laughing, talking, and touching. His words at dinner stayed with me, though, and I found myself thinking about _le petite mort_ into the morning, long after he had died for the day. His analogy was flattering, but it also reminded me of my proximity to death. Eric lived in death. He dealt death. And I knew on some level I didn't fully understand that he wanted me to partner with it. My familiar anxieties and fears found me as I drifted into sleep.

And then I was dreaming. A thick fog surrounded me. Eric was staring at me, hard, lustful, and impenetrable. I felt his teeth snap into my neck, cold and aggressive, heard his snarl reverberate through me. His fingers curled around my head, grasping and searching; he quenched his desire with a violence that held no regard for me. My body seized in panic as my chest constricted. My life source began to flicker.

I woke, not in a sudden, relief-filled snap, but in a heavy, dread-laden fade into consciousness. I knew the dream mattered, whether or not it was real. Eric was lethal. Even though I had begun to tenuously trust him, there was only so much I could hope to expect.

I looked at the clock—it was late afternoon. Eric was stretched out beside me, still and exquisite. My eyes ran over his body, drinking him in. I had to purposefully shut them to return to my thought process. Sitting with him like this, when he was vulnerable and available, was almost unbearable. Looking at his face or body for any period of time felt like falling into a stupor, but seeing him absolutely unprotected was dangerous in a different way: there was nothing to distract me, nothing to keep me from endlessly objectifying him. If I wasn't careful, everything else just faded away.

It shouldn't. Not now. Dangerous or open, lethal or gentle—I didn't know what version of Eric to focus on, what aspects to consider. Over the past few days, I felt my heart begin to crack open. It wouldn't be long before the glimmer of emotion I felt started to shine. I had to be careful; I had to think it through.

When I opened my eyes again, Eric was conscious. The tiniest of changes, but the results were devastating: those piecing blue eyes altered the entire room. He was no longer an object to admire. He was now unfathomably arresting. If he knew even a tenth of the affect he had on me, he would be insufferable. The thought almost made me smile, but I was too shaken.

I knew he sensed my mood. He did not respond immediately, either with affection or by pulling away. Instead, he stared at me with cool remove—reserved, motionless. His eyes were guarded, almost empty. It did not make things easier to say.

"Hi," I started meaninglessly.

"Greetings," he returned.

"We have to talk." Cliché, but effective. Eric righted himself against the headboard. His expression revealed nothing. I turned to face him.

"We've never set…expectations for this." Even as I began the conversation, I couldn't help feeling everything was wrong. We were both naked, and all I wanted to do was fall face-first into his arms on the vast bed. Or feel him violently impale me against the wall. Neither required calm, rational thinking and speaking. Still, I continued.

"You've said it before, but not lately. You want me to be _yours_. What…what does that mean to you?"

"Fucking. Feeding. Exclusively," he answered simply. My heart sank a little. These were hardly romantic assurances. "If I claim you, you admit to be mine—you're recognized as mine by other vampires, and I have exclusive rights to your body and blood. A blood bond is more serious—we are tied, metaphysically, existentially together; you will always feel me and I you." He shifted forward and sought my eyes. "You know these things. You know I wish them of you. What are you asking, exactly, lover?"

"I…I don't know," I answered honestly. "What you said, earlier, about death, about seeking it out, desiring it… That scares me. What you are, Eric…scares me," I started, quietly. The thought of becoming intimately bound with something beyond life sped my pulse and chilled my blood. It was outside of my ability to articulate. I settled for expressing my more nameable fears. "Also, you've killed people." He nodded. "You could harm me."

"I haven't," he stated.

"I know. Well, not with malice," I qualified. He knew I was right.

"I'm a vampire."

"Yes. And…I have no idea what it would mean for me to allow those things you want." Eric remained quiet for a long time.

"I am trying—very hard—not to push you, lover." His ancient control was etched on his face now, as it had been so often lately.

"I know that," I replied quietly. "It still weighs on me." He pressed his lips to my temple. The kiss was not chaste—it inflamed my blood—but he did not push further. "What do those things…mean for you?" I asked hesitantly. Though we had never discussed it, I realized in that instant it would crush me to hear he would consider seeing, kissing, drinking, fucking others.

Eric understood exactly what I was asking, and while he wasn't offended, he was adamant. "You are already what I want," he answered immediately. "Haven't I told you how superlative you are? How you summon and then somehow exceed all my desires? Gods, woman, I float in your blood when we fuck. I'm blinded when I drink you. You have _entrapped_ me. Do you really think I can return to anything less?"

"So you're telling me I have no choice, then?"

"Not in the slightest," he continued calmly. "I'm telling you there is nothing to fear."

"Except your nature," I answered. "Except your past. Except every instinct you have that tells you to drink me down, to end me. I am…special. And at some point I might be outside of your control." I trembled even as I said the words.

"My instincts don't tell me that, lover. Never _only_ that," Eric amended. He moved his lips into my hair. His patience stunned me. "They tell me to do this." He circled my ribcage and found my breasts. "And this," he continued, stroking lightly across my stomach. "And this," he whispered, easing me backward on the expanse of his wide bed, his hands capturing mine, his mouth traveling downward, skimming my sex.

"Eric, we should stop…" I tried to return to the topic at hand, but there was no resolve in my voice. He knew it, but he didn't laugh. He didn't tease me. I appreciated it beyond measure. Contradicting my words, I tangled my fingers in his hair and pressed his head into me. I felt him inhale. My blood throbbed.

"You know this won't fix anything," I managed, one last attempt to gain closure while his mouth softly explored.

"Yes."

"You're doing this so I forget what I said."

"No," he whispered emphatically.

"You want me to remember how good this feels." He broke away to look up at me, his eyes burning.

"I want you to remember how _I_ feel."

He resumed. Everything in me coiled toward him, around him. He drew me in without even trying. I began to move against him erratically.

"Oh, lover," he hummed. "This is only the beginning."

I knew he didn't mean the act as coercion. He meant it to demonstrate his depth of feeling. Even still, the pleasure he brought was…outside of insight. He felt like biting into caramel, running my hands through warm sand, smelling green grass and sawdust and warm, pulsing _life_, not death. Tie myself to _this_? It was impossible even to begin to push the thought away, let alone deny it.

Eric continued, measured and wild, impossible and real, excessive and simple—_him_. I tasted sweetness in my mouth, the texture silky and warm and indescribably delicious. A thousand shards of light glittered behind my eyes, an enveloping, shimmering sandstorm. Though nothing, I knew, in comparison to Eric's experience of the world, I felt nearly obliterated by the sensations sweeping through me. His tongue sped against me, pulling, pushing, battering, caressing. I had a feeling he knew. That he sensed it.

"So…sweet," I murmured, unable to put another name on the sensation. It was the first time I felt this level of gentleness, restraint, and concern from him. I always loved Eric's intensity, his fire, but this was something beyond. When his fingers entered me at last, I had no will to hold back.

I shuddered against him, quietly, softly, velvet smooth. _Le petite mort_… I felt his eyes on me rather than saw them, his vast longing pouring out of him, tempered by enviable, matchless control. I saw it in my mind's eye as I came: Eric was inescapable. I felt helpless and sated and wildly unsure of myself. But I was suddenly certain of him as I never had been before. I opened my eyes.

He met my gaze—steady, calm, even. _Something to seek_. _Something to desire._ I stared back.

I was beginning to understand.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: _Thank you so much for your beautiful comments and continued support! This is a little chapter from Eric's perspective on the relationship development. Hopefully it's fun getting into his head now and then… _

**Teeth in the Grass Part II: Chapter 8**

_Eric's POV_

The day apart was my idea, for me as much as for Sookie. She was still questioning what a relationship on my terms would mean, and I was having difficulty maintaining my calm. I had no desire to force her into something she had not fully considered, but my impulses toward persuasion were hard to keep in check. I needed a distraction.

I arrived at Fangtasia around 10:00pm—earlier than usual but late enough for the bar to be reasonably full—and let myself in through the back. Pam stopped me in the hall before I could reach my office, her eyebrow arched wryly.

"Is the pleasure all ours?" she drawled. I smirked at her but touched her shoulder gently as I brushed past.

"As usual." Pam slipped into the office after me.

"Trouble in sweet little blonde paradise?" she tossed back.

"Nothing I won't handle," I dismissed, leafing through some paperwork.

"Nothing _I_ wouldn't handle either… Tell me when you get tired of her—I want a turn," she winked. The growl ripped out of me before I could stop it. It didn't matter—she felt its origins before the sound occurred anyway. There was no keeping my feelings from Pam. "Hmm," she said, more intrigued than offended, "curiouser and curiouser…"

I would not justify myself to Pam. I did not have to.

"Don't you have some humans to judge?"

"I already am—one in particular…"

"That's enough," I ordered curtly. I saw her form a sarcastic retort, though she kept silent.

"Throne?" she asked simply.

"Throne." She shrugged nonchalantly and headed off.

My throne at Fangtasia was an ironic gesture at first—a nod to my upbringing, a gimmicky theatrical display, and a place to literally hold court with other vampires—but it had morphed into an important icon for my human clientele. I knew how they perceived me when I sat in it. One does not grow to my age without acquiring a strong awareness of one's affect on others. Humans saw me as dangerous yet sedate, coolly aloof, indifferent. Although they read me as bored, they also recognized my absolute and total control—nothing was outside of my purview. Despite my frequent annoyance with my human patrons, it was sometimes soothing to sit wrapped in the knowledge of their opinion, publicly visible but untouchable. Above.

I settled into the chair and assumed my usual posture, feeling the power seep into me. It was safe, comfortable, familiar. I did not know that I actually craved the display in the time I'd spent away, that I had missed it somehow. The realization was unsettling.

After a moment, Pam came to sit beside me. She did not speak. She did not offer me a new dancer. She did not try to make things easier. She just provided companionship. I welcomed it. Things were simple with Pam. While I cared about her deeply, she did not intoxicate me with her blood or drive me senseless with her body or pluck at my heart with her words… Damn. Even surrounded by stimuli, it was impossible to push Sookie from my mind. I shifted, agitated; without a second look, Pam rose and walked to the bar to give me space.

Glancing around the room, I tried to distract myself by noticing and evaluating everything that was new—every face, every fixture, every detail. I liked new things. Sookie might have said I was obsessed with them. But she was wrong if she thought my fascination held no regard for the past.

On the contrary.

The past was always nested inside of the new—palimpsestic, inescapable. No matter where one looked, something had been eliminated, pasted over, fit inside of something else. I saw it all stretched before me, buried beneath me as endless stratigraphy—layers upon layers upon layers. Open expanses became churches became shopping malls. Streets went from twining dirt to rough cobblestone to black asphalt. Humans changed, too, though the past was always visible: traits, ideologies, and behaviors compounded into one another, altered but also traceable, spreading throughout time. I could see so many connections. I understood why attitudes and beliefs appeared in human culture when they did, whether cruel or racist or altruistic. Even when something seemed unique, there was always causation. I rarely needed to postulate or consider for long—I could easily find all the whys. I had lived through them. Everything was caught up in an endless series of links forming infinite chains of meaning. Nothing was ever new, or ever would be again.

That knowledge did not necessarily bother me—not really. Part of the pleasure I took in the present was seeking out the connections, studying what seemed to be different but was actually intimately knowable. That included physical, sensual discoveries as well as theoretical ones. They fed my power. I collected the new as it turned into the _known_. And then I moved on.

Sookie, though…

I inhaled roughly in an attempt to stop myself, but soon recognized the futility. I couldn't keep my mind away from her. Once I decided to indulge my thoughts they washed over me like a flood. I bathed in them.

I had tasted Sookie, I had known her, but yet she still felt…new. What were the reasons for _that_? Why couldn't I collect her and move on? I could have told myself it was her Fae blood or her hesitance to give herself to me completely that kept me from feeling sated, that made her seem exciting and different. But those were not the reasons, I realized. She felt new because she drew out a newness in _me_. I had sensed it before I had really tasted her, before I had buried myself in her. The sensations she teased out of me were always different, always novel. She pulled me apart, continually, ceaselessly. Every time.

A troubled curiosity filled me. How was it _possible_? I recalled my experiences with many, many others, looking for patterns, similarities, connections. I saw flashes of all the men and women I had before, each with a flood of sensations attached: the first hot liquid pulse of my youth; the ageless satisfaction in tasting my name in another's ecstatic scream; the sensual excess of drinking and fucking another into black oblivion, fangs throbbing, buried deep without remorse. I had experienced numerous physical highs in the encounters, yes, but also the pleasures of categorizing, logging away, coming to understand. And so went my effortless accrual of power.

Since my time with Sookie, though, my life felt…different. I now had feelings that went beyond the regard and respect I had felt for her after our first evening together. They were greater than the violent pleasures her body brought me while her incandescent blood glowed in my veins. Perhaps most jarringly, they surpassed even my power of absolute understanding, which seemed to lessen in certainty the longer I was with her. There was something deeper, more important stirring in me that I had not yet experienced, that I could not name. And it was not merely a blend of my competing desires for savage passion and mindful control. While those had not faded, I felt something different, something tender and selfless spreading through my chest, warm and golden and easy. Something…new.

Although Pam was across the room leaning on the bar, I felt her gaze on me as I pondered. I turned toward her sharply. In that moment and all at once, she recognized something in me I did not know was there. Her eyes widened in disbelief, her arms dropped to her sides, and her mouth spread into a slow, knowing grin. Her reaction felt like a suckerpunch. It had not occurred to me what to label the newness—or even that there _was_ a label—until I saw her reaction, but now... Now it felt impossible to deny. It was…love.

Gods fucking damnit.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: _I am still floored by your kind attention to this little story. Thank you, thank you. I hope you enjoy the next step here. Lemons…_

**Teeth in the Grass Part II: Chapter 9**

Our evening off had altered something. Though Eric continued to be his usual unshakeable, confident self in some regards—his lovemaking was fantastic and demanding as ever—in many exchanges, he felt the most evasive and enigmatic I'd ever seen him. This did not seem like forward progress. It concerned me.

After a few days, I decided to take some time to myself. Perhaps it was paradoxical to want space when the problem I felt was related to distance, but nothing I was doing in the moment seemed to be useful. I needed to think it over. I told him I had extra shifts to cover at work, that I had to spend some time with Jason and my neglected friends. Eric knew it was more than that, but he didn't challenge me. In fact, he left me completely alone—not a text message, not a phone call—for two days.

Though I had succeeded in distracting myself from the relationship a bit over the weekend, I couldn't stop thinking about it as I worked a slow Monday afternoon. I knew I could not change Eric's behavior. But I didn't have to wait around passively, either.

A new thought occurred to me as I watched an awkward exchange at the bar. I didn't even need to listen in on the young couple; their shy smiles made it clear they had just met. After a few attempts at flirtation, the girl rose to leave. I heard them both internally push for a phone number, though neither had the courage to speak up. She turned back furtively after a few steps, but he had already looked away. Crestfallen, she left the bar. The interaction amused me, but it also struck a chord.

Maybe Eric was unsure of _me_. Despite his determined pursuit, hadn't I ceaselessly questioned him about his ability for restraint, his motives, his past? Although he must have had a clear idea that I wanted him physically, I never gave him a firm indicator of how much he had come to mean. I realized I had been somewhat selfish in my expectations: I assumed Eric would always be sure of wanting me, that he would always unwaveringly pursue. That allowed me to hang back, consider, and ponder—a courtesy I never extended to him. That was unfair. He deserved more.

In that moment of recognition, I made a decision. The clarity of it was invigorating and a little frightening.

I was going after Eric.

Pursuit was new to me. I had no idea how to approach him. Appearing on his doorstep with six-dozen roses didn't seem appropriate. Neither did showing up at his office in nothing but a trench coat. Those actions would amuse Eric, surely, and maybe even result in hot sex, but they didn't have the right tone. The affect was off.

I remembered Eric's first gift—the gesture that nudged my heart open a fraction when it seemed totally closed to his advances. The ash tree was towering over my backyard now. I couldn't top it, I knew. But perhaps I could match it, at least in significance if not in grandeur. I considered what the action indicated. It honored what I held valuable (family, age, tradition), though I was fairly sure it wasn't what he did. It acknowledged my desire for independence even as it symbolized protection. Simply put, it meant he understood me. As a separate, distinct person.

At the time, it had been absolutely right; I needed to feel valued, affirmed in my own experience. But that wasn't what Eric needed now. It wasn't what I wanted to tell him. I didn't want separate—I wanted together. I thought back to the night we first made love, to Eric's demand to know what I sensed when I tasted him. My first three responses burned in my head. _Whiskey, birchwood, fire_…

The significant gesture came to me: it had to be fire. Necessary and destructive, comforting and wild, luminous and dangerous as hell. In our relationship, I was learning to embrace the peril, to find the beauty in it. Despite my fears, I was discovering I didn't want a neutered, neutral version of Eric. I had to show him that I understood, that I valued and _wanted_ everything he was.

After work, I bought a few loads of firewood and a good bottle of Kentucky bourbon. When I arrived at home, I piled the wood in the backyard fire ring as high as I could. I struck a match and watched as the tiny flame took hold in the kindling. Soon the fire spread to the larger branches, gentle as a caress, building toward an engulfing roar. It was mesmerizing. I set the bottle of whiskey on a small bench nearby and waited.

Just as the sun was beginning to set, I messaged Eric: _Meet me by the tree. I want to show you something__._

The sky darkened. The fire danced, and the whiskey shone.

While I had no reason to expect Eric would show up immediately—especially given our increased distance lately—he appeared in my backyard just minutes after the sun disappeared. Though I didn't think it possible, our time apart had only increased my attraction to him. My fingers flexed involuntarily with the need to touch him.

Eric took one look at the scene and knew the reference point immediately. He waited for me to speak, watchful and guarded. I took a deep breath and began.

"I couldn't find any birchwood," I joked in a small voice, before silence swallowed us. I tried again.

"I've got to tell you something." He remained still, his eyes glittering. I couldn't tell if they were hopeful or distant.

"These past few days have been…almost impossible," I started. "All I've wanted to do is chase you, grab you, and tackle you to the ground. It feels like I'm on fire. Obvious, but true." He took a step toward me, but I stopped him. "No, wait, wait. I want to finish this. It's important." He set his jaw and fell motionless.

"I know I've sent mixed signals lately, but I have to say… I don't want you safe. I don't want you diminished. I want you strong and wild and powerful. You are what I want. And I want it _all_."

Eric's gaze scorched me, but he did not move closer. He looked strange, both far away and hyper-present. The heat of the fire wafted through my sundress, making me feel warm and exposed. The flames cast shadows over his face, darkening the weary circles under his eyes. He glanced down at the whiskey.

"Drink it," he finally said. His response caught me off guard, and I felt a cold thrill of excitement as I uncorked the bottle. I hadn't brought a glass, so I took a long swig straight from the neck. He let out a sharp feral grunt.

"Again." I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was so turned on, so gorgeous. It felt like he was pushing me, testing my commitment to the "all" I said I wanted. I took another deep drag.

Suddenly he was in front of me, commanding, a little intimidating. The fire warmed my skin from the outside while the whiskey worked within.

Eric hadn't touched me in days, and when he grabbed my arm, I felt an electric jolt run through me. Slowly, almost casually, he brought my wrist to his mouth and licked along the length of my arm to the elbow, his eyes locked on mine.

He hummed against me sensually. "I feel it burning." My desire climbed like the flames.

"Will…will you drink me now?" I stuttered out.

"Yes." But he didn't. He just continued lightly tracing my veins with his fingers. The bourbon flooded through me.

"Will you be able to taste it?"

"I will." This made me curious even inside of my flushed excitement.

"Is that…fun for you?" He laughed darkly.

"You're about to find out, lover." Bending me low in the glow of the fire, he placed deliberate kisses up the column of my neck. "Delicious," he whispered. His tongue measured my pulse just behind my ear. He pressed his fangs delicately against me, inhaling, savoring.

Impatient with want, I exclaimed, "For God's sake, Eric, just do it already!" He growled—whether in humor or frustration, I could not tell—and bit.

I had never felt him as I did then. "Out of control" was the wrong expression. So was "batshit crazy." But there was a touch of both in him as he wound his arms around my body, sucking me into his mouth with a new, forceful relish. The experience was heady and wasting. He made fascinating, unrestrained sounds of gratification against my throat while ceaselessly stroking my skin, his fingers igniting trails of fire that matched the path of the whiskey. If I had any worries about losing consciousness while he drank, they were buried beneath irresponsibly massive waves of pleasure. He broke away after a few moments—primal, starving, wary.

"Fucking Sookie," he sighed, pressing his forehead against mine. Despite my shaken state, I smiled. The combination of reverence and vulgarity moved me.

"Tell me what you want," I breathed.

"Fucking Sookie," he repeated, his eyes warm and bright, almost dilated with pleasure.

"Mmm…" I answered. "Why aren't you, then?"

Another low rumble vibrated through his chest as he grasped me to him. His fangs found their way into my throat again. Though the intensity was familiar, this purposeful seeking after his own pleasure was new. It thrilled me. I cried out in surprise as he picked me up. My legs wrapped around his lean, muscled torso instinctively, my arms clasping his neck. With less than elegant precision, he lurched us forward several feet until we reached the base of the ash tree, grinding me into it. I wondered for a moment if alcohol could affect vampires, too, before his lips found mine, and I lost all other thoughts.

Eric was clawing at me, my back pressed against the bark of the tree. By this point, I was ravenous for him, and I was starting to lose the particularities of the situation. I knew on some level that we were traveling up the tree trunk, his strong arms flexing and pulling us higher, but I still gasped in surprise when he finally pulled away. We were several feet off the ground, nestled in the first solid crook of branches. His lips had never left mine.

His back angled against the trunk, Eric stretched his legs languorously out along the length of the limb. I was facing him, wrapped securely in his arms, straddling his lap. The intimacy of the position was inflaming. I looked down at the fire raging below us, the smoke filling my nose, and then back at Eric, his body firm and alive and beautifully warm. The glow of the fire illuminated his face.

The momentary lull had displaced some of the urgency. We simply stared at each for a few moments, inhaling deeply.

"Now," he started, one strong arm trailing up my neck and into my hair. He held it away from my face, as if appraising my beauty as well as admiring it. "Where were we?"

"Fucking Sookie," I reminded, unfastening his jeans and taking him into my hands.

"How could I forget," Eric murmured. Gently, he reached under my dress and began to stroke me. Cradling me backward in one hand—effortless, strong, sure—he removed my underwear with the other. Restricted somewhat by location, he leaned back against the tree trunk again, his arms circling me lightly. He waited, sexy and expectant, to see what I would do.

I slid down onto him slowly, moving against him at my own pace, showing him how much I wanted him, how deliberate I was about _choosing_ to want him. The fire continued to grow beneath us. I felt all of the symbolic weight I had set for it seep into me and then into Eric—newness and ever-presence, interconnection and depth, union and understanding. I took him as I felt in the moment: rough and on fire. He looked up at me with a mixture of disbelief and admiration, his hands grasping my hips. My heart swelled almost painfully with unspoken devotion and desire. As if he felt it, too, Eric removed a hand from my waist and pressed his palm solidly over the center of my chest. I gasped, filled with acute, reverberant longing as he strained up into me.

We came together for the first time, hot and full and right, the moment painted with flickering red and orange. Eric crushed me to him, releasing a quiet sob into my neck before loosening his grasp. His head fell back against the tree trunk. Overwhelmed, I slumped forward, resting my head heavily on his chest. My eyes drifted shut.

I came back to consciousness with a start. Eric still held me in the ash tree. The fire had not dwindled at all, which I thought was appropriate. He kissed my forehead when he realized I was awake.

"Thank you," he said after a moment. "For all of this."

"It's not just for you," I admitted.

"I know," he answered with import.

My heart thudded erratically against his chest. Despite the fact that I had no idea how he would react, I wanted to say more, to tell him the depth of my chaotic, outsized feelings for him. Though the words did not come, he looked at me sharply, as if they had.

"I think…I think I know that, too, lover," he remarked quietly. "Better than you know…"

His words startled me. I was too timid to ask him what he meant, and so I didn't. A similar kind of hesitance kept him from explaining. But when he turned back toward me and looked into my eyes, I saw something new there. Although it seemed objectively impossible, I knew deep within me that he was revealing it to me now, in the same way that I knew he had kept it hidden from me before. It was just the smallest hint of a spark, a little flame burning…for _me_. We held each other's gaze without comment for a long moment. My heart surged.

Still wordless, he broke the eye contact by wrapping me in his arms. I smiled into his chest, eyes closed. Breathing against him, sated and warm and hopeful, I thought of the tiny match and the raging fire…


End file.
